La Dolce Velocita

In the showroom of Ferrari of Atlanta. Have mercy, that was a sweet car.

“Fasten your seatbelt,” my driving coach said as he climbed behind the wheel.

He didn’t have tell me twice. He didn’t have to tell me at all. I knew exactly what a Ferrari 360 Modena was capable of doing — zero to sixty in 4.3 seconds, with a top speed of 190 mph. I also knew that after our first lap around the course, I’d switch places with him, and I’d be the one in the driver’s seat.

He looked over at me, surprised to see a notebook on my lap. “You’re gonna take notes?”

I nodded. “I’m a writer. We do that.”

And then I explained that I wrote mysteries, and that despite the grin on my face, I was in that bright yellow Ferrari doing serious research for my Tai Randolph & Trey Seaver series. After all, Trey—my Special Op trained, former SWAT co-protagonist—drives a 2008 Ferrari F430 coupe. And while my girl Tai has yet to get her eager fingers wrapped around its steering wheel, she eventually will. And I, her writer, need to be able to describe that experience.

I explained all this to my driving coach as he fastened his own seatbelt. “Cool,” he said. And then he slipped the car into gear, opened up the throttle, and my notebook hit the floor.

For the next sixty seconds, my life condensed to whiplash turns and lightning acceleration. I remember my stomach somersaulting with each twist and angle, the irresistible forces of velocity and trajectory combining in a giddy-making head rush. When we eventually slammed to a stop, my driver told me he’d been taking the car to only 80% of its capacity. And then he helped me out of my seat.

“Your turn,” he said, and grinned.

I slipped into the driver’s seat, feeling the vibrations of the engine, which is mounted right behind you, a V-8, pistons pumping, motor growling. Driving a Ferrari is a sensual delight—the leather seat molding to your body, the heat waves shimmering up from the engine, the throaty roar that peaks in a banshee shriek, like a chainsaw mated with a sonic boom. It’s primal, animal, atavistic, all blood rush and adrenaline surge. But a Ferrari isn’t some wanton, reckless beast—it wants to be controlled. And even on a simple agility course like I was running, you can feel how much performance the car is giving you, how much more it’s got to give. You push the accelerator a half an inch, and the car rewards you with a screaming, high-octane mile in return.

I drove my yellow and black fireball as cautiously as any stereotypical granny, considering it was worth over a hundred thousand dollars. But even at relatively tame speeds, I could feel its exquisite responsiveness, as if it were a live thing, as if it could read my mind. My coach warned me to keep my eyes on the lane and not on the obstacles, because the car would go where I looked. He also guided me through the turns—when to slow, when to punch it—and I had to trust him, because every instinct I had was screaming turn-turn-turn-now-now-now and he was saying wait-wait-wait. But when I trusted his instructions, I could feel the car moving into the curve, aligning itself with the centripetal and centrifugal forces. Becoming, indeed, one with the road.

I climbed out of that Italian leather seat with a true understanding of “la dolce velocita”: the sweet speed. And I know my girl Tai is going to be utterly blown away when she finally gets to drive this work of automotive art for herself. She’ll forgive every inconvenient corpse I’ve ever dropped in her path, I am certain of it.

Making the Most of A Writer’s Conference

I was asked by one of my favorite writers for some advice recently. This writer (we’ll call him “Chris” because that’s his name) is gearing up for his first professional conference (which we’ll call “Crossroads” because . . . you know) and he wanted some tips on how to make the most of it.

I’m a good person to ask. I’ve been attending writer’s conference for twenty years now, and I’ve made every mistake there is. Plus, I am proud to say, I invented a few. So here you go, Chris — enjoy my various missteps, oopsies, and oh-no-I-didn’t moments. Learn from them, grasshopper.

1. Don’t hit the guests of honor.

I must confess — I have deep fangirl tendencies. When I meet someone whose work I admire, I tend to stammer, bumble, and knock plants over. Recently, I found myself sharing a bus stop with Margaret Maron (who was inducted this year as a Mystery Writers of America grandmaster). When she introduced herself, I actually smacked her on the bicep and said, “Oh no, you’re not! Get out of here!”

Lesson— you’ll meet enormously talented people, some of them your idols and inspirations. They’re writers just like you. People just like you. Don’t worry about making an impression — enjoy the interaction. And keep the right hook to yourself.

2. Don’t hide.

Writing is a career for introverts. As I tell people, I got into this gig because I like to kill imaginary people while still wearing my pajamas. But when I go out into the world — as all writers must — I muster up whatever measure of extrovertism I can and make the best of it.

Lesson — the literary action is not in your hotel room. If it is, you’re not at the right kind of conference. Or either you have become the conference. Be able to tell the difference.

3. But don’t wear yourself out either.

Conferences are often back-to-back panels, receptions, interviews, dinners, and other meet-and-greets. If you’re exhausted, you’ll be overwhelmed with the information/names/choices coming your way, and you won’t be make those crucial unplanned connections that are the sweetmeat of conferences.

Lesson — pace and plan. Get the schedule. Map out your choices. Leave yourself room for some downtime. And eat as healthfully as you can. Get some fiber in you.

4. Don’t chase unicorns.

I don’t mean real unicorns (because if you see a real unicorn, OF COURSE YOU CHASE IT). I’m talking about the one person/one encounter/one class that you’re willing to sacrifice everything else for and that you’ll beat yourself up about for months if you miss. Unicorn chases are a waste of time, energy and — most importantly — they are the opposite of magic.

Lesson — Catch the flow of a conference. Be open to the surprises that come your way. There will always be nuggets of serendipitous goodness around every corner.

5. Don’t drink every drink that some famous person wants to buy you. But DO say yes to one or two.
Apparently I have this knack for being at the bar when the ultra-titanium cards come out. And while the drinks have been excellent — especially the chocolate martini from C.J. Lyons — the most valuable part of the experience was the chance to sit at someone’s elbow and soak up the publishing and writing talk.

Lesson — some of the best conference moments happen during the downtimes. And whether you like bourbon on the rocks or club soda with a twist of lime, if one of your idols offers to set you up, resist the impulse to stammer and feel all indebted. It will be your turn one day.

And here’s the etcetera. Take business cards to share. Collect cards too. Follow-up with e-mails to say “it was great to meet you!” Talk to the people sitting to your right and left and in the elevator and at the buffet line. Watch. Listen. Ask “So what do you write?” Have a succinct practiced answer to that question when other people ask it of you. Published or pre-published or anywhere in between, you’re a writer — own it.

You’ll be great, Chris. Or whatever your name is.